Heartbroken ThirteenYearOld Me
by amaXdear
Summary: Angel becomes the girl of her dreams for the first time. An Angel-centric fic, first in the 'Conversations' series of oneshots.


**June 25, 1983  
****Age thirteen, 8****th**** grade**

_Don't lose your passion or the fighter that's inside of you  
__You're the girl I used to be  
__The little heartbroken, thirteen-year-old me_

I broke into a theater once. Not on Broadway, of course--it was back when I still lived with my family, in Flagstaff. I was thirteen, and I snuck in at seven o'clock in the morning during the middle of summer, when I was sure no one else would wander in. The lobby was huge, made of some kind of creamy-colored stone. Large gilded signs indicated different theaters, and I walked into one that said it was dedicated to Agatha Christie. My sister loved Agatha Christie; apparently she was an old British author who wrote like eighty books and the most popular play of all time. I read one of her books once, and it was pretty good. Real surprise ending--turns out twelve people helped kill a guy, but the funny little detective let it slide because the dead guy was an ass who kidnapped a little girl. If I were a violent person, I probably would have stabbed him too.

The room was enormous, dark, and silent. There were hundreds of rows of seats on three or four different levels, with black velvet seat covers. The red carpet under my feet was so plush that my footsteps made no sound, even though I could swear my own breathing was amplified tenfold.

I walked up to the stage and set my bag on the steps, climbing up slowly and standing on the edge. The floor of the stage didn't feel like wood, more like black rubber, scuffed and covered with bright pieces of tape. On either side of me rose enormous stained-glass windows. Small pieces of green, yellow, and red glass made pictures of grief-stricken women and fierce men. The early morning sunlight shone through them and softly decorated the stage.

I sat down on the stage with my legs dangling over the side, closing my eyes. I imagined every seat filled, hundreds of people looking down at me. I pictured a girl sitting right where I was, smiling up at them. She had black hair and brown eyes and beautiful Hispanic skin¾like coffee, I thought, mixed with the perfect amount of cream. She was wearing a white tank top, simply cut but adorned with small, pretty flowers and sequins. It perfectly matched the skirt she was wearing, a brick-red, knee-length creation that emphasized her long, graceful legs. Everything about her matched: leggings with pale crimson and white splotches, white platform high heels, pink eye shadow and French-manicured nails.

The girl winked at me and stood, moving to the very center of the stage. She stood tall and proud, and spoke to the fake audience in a clear voice. She didn't act or recite anything; she just… talked. She told them about her dreams and her goals, about passions that nobody knew she had and talents they never would have expected. She told them all about her family, how much she loved them but also how much she yearned for their respect; respect that she felt she hadn't earned.

Then she started to talk right to the crowd, demanding _their_ respect. She wasn't a freak, she explained to them. Just because she was quiet didn't mean that anybody had a right to make fun of her or call her names. Why did they care? She was who she was, and they couldn't change that, so they had better suck it up and love her anyway.

Her voice rang out clearly, the words echoing as she finished. The audience was silent for a full thirty seconds, so silent I almost remembered that I was dreaming, before erupting into applause. She grinned, and curtsied to them. Skipping back to me, she smiled encouragingly, and my heart stuttered with excitement. Go on, she seemed to say. It's your turn.

I took a deep, shaky breath and stood. I made my way to the same spot she had been in, the spotlight nearly blinding. The audience turned their gaze to me, stern and demanding to be entertained. I stumbled over words in my head, trying to figure out what I was going to say. The girl had managed to sound so confident¾how did she do that? The audience grew impatient, and a discontent rumble began somewhere in the back. I looked desperately at the girl for help, but she just sat there, waiting. I faced the crowd again and opened my mouth to say something, anything, but all that came out was a desperate, wailing plea, more suited to a child than the grown-up I was trying to be.

"_Stop looking at me!"_

I didn't get any applause. I stood there, in the middle of the stage, feeling sick and ready to cry, with thousands of people laughing at me. The girl looked disappointed. So was I.

(-(-)-)

I opened my eyes, sick with nausea. I was completely alone, of course. I shuddered, feeling too small and too plain for the opulent atmosphere. My canvas bag lay innocently on the steps. I picked it up and scampered out of the theater like a mouse out of a field, terrified that a great bird would swoop down and eat me up.

I dashed into the lobby¾God, why was this building so enormous? I stepped aside, into the bathroom, and slammed the door, nearly hyperventilating. The room was freezing, and I shivered. Walking up to the countertop, I gripped the edge until my knuckles turned white, staring at my own face in the mirror. I looked young, I thought, young and scared. No wonder none of my classmates liked me. I was just that poor little Schunard boy, stupider than Patrick and Valeyra and even Nicholas, with a silly name like Angello and too many pimples.

Looking in my eyes, I knew that I hated myself. There were so many moments I wanted to take back, moments where I should have stood up for myself or been brave for others. For years I had hidden from the warm spotlights that surrounded my siblings, too afraid that it would illuminate my flaws. Now, in the dim light, every flaw stood ready for my inspection: cowardice, dullness, shyness. Why the _hell_ had I wasted all that time? Why would anyone look at me now? Why would they expect anything extraordinary, when all I had done for years was been so God damn ordinary? I hadn't even made it to high school yet, but already I wished fervently that I could be going away to college, making a fresh start with a fresh face.

My bag, sitting quietly next to the sink, caught my eye, and I stared at it thoughtfully. Sure, it was a risk… but college was so far away…

The first thing I pulled out was a cheap wig, black and wavy, that Val had worn for Halloween a few years ago, back when her hair was cut short. She had gone as a sixties go-go girl (not the slutty kind), then stuffed the wig in the downstairs closet and forgotten about it. It was full of tangles, but I combed it carefully with my fingers and gently put it on over my tight curls. It was… different. I shook my head, watching the locks shake and bounce, and then neatly fall into place, just barely brushing my shoulder blades. I decided that I liked it.

With clumsy, unfamiliar hands, I started to apply makeup, again stolen from Val. I watched, marveling, as my face changed--my lips weren't so disgustingly obvious, my zits were hidden, even my stupid snub nose became almost endearing. My hands shook as I stripped right in the middle of the restroom and yanked on my sister's clothes, impatient to morph from caterpillar to butterfly.

I was confident that Val wouldn't miss the skirt--she never wore skirts anymore. She might not even recognize the shirt, because I had found it in the very back of her closet. I had spent an hour or two teaching myself to sew white sequins around the collar and embroidered red roses towards the bottom. The white boots were another part of the Halloween costume, so no worries there. The only thing I wore that was actually mine was the red leggings, which I had bought in a thrift store down the street. I loved the way they made my skinny chicken legs look graceful.

Breathless, I eyed myself in the mirror again and let out a delighted laugh. Would you look at that! I spun around, not caring that I nearly tripped in my heels, watching my skirt and hair fly out, wanting to hug someone and hugging myself instead. _This_ was me! No longer shy, but proud and confident and talented and adventurous, with dreams and friends and … a silly name like Angello. Or, as my classmates preferred to say, Jell-o.

I pouted at the girl in the mirror and was distracted by how awesome it looked. The pout changed, turned into a gentle smile, a kind, pretty smile, the smile of a girl who had nothing to prove. That was who I was now. I was a girl who was confident enough to be herself without worrying that people would point and laugh. A girl who didn't have to mimic anyone, who could be selfless and kind. I thought of the girl onstage, comfortable in her own skin. That was who I wanted to be, and I silently thanked her for showing me how. I needed someone like that, like… a guardian angel. Didn't everyone?

"Angel," I said aloud. "I'm Angel."

I liked the way that sounded, so I said it again. And then I spun and curtsied nicely to an invisible companion, wobbling in my boots. "Miss Angel Schunard, if you please." Giggling, I tossed my long, beautiful tresses and blew a kiss. "The girl of your dreams." The girl of _my_ dreams, anyhow. Me!

I didn't scamper out of that restroom¾I skipped. I skipped all the way down the street before I realized that it wasn't necessarily practical in platform boots. I took a deep, calming breath and stood tall, dignified and confident.

_Look at me, world_, I felt like shouting. _Look at me and love what you see!_

_Until we meet again, I wish you well.  
__Little girl, little thirteen-year-old me_

* * *

**A/N: Hi guys. Let's all give a big round of applause to Natalia173, without whom this story would make no sense. Seriously, it wouldn't. And yes, this is a series of oneshots, because many of them will be able to stand individually. Also, the updating might not be regular because I have a lot of different stuff going down right now. So, until next time!  
Ama**


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